


There's a Fine Line

by funhousefreak



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Akechi's bad with emotions, Akira is confused, First Kiss, M/M, Makeouts, and talking, confusing makeouts, so he just...doesn't bother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24391234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funhousefreak/pseuds/funhousefreak
Summary: "There's a fine line, between love and hate" ~"Diary of Jane" by Breaking BenjaminThe night before Akira's attempted assassination, Akechi has a confession to make.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 104





	There's a Fine Line

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little drabble that my brain came up with. I'm working on some longer P5 fics, but don't have much time/energy to write atm. So, for now, have this silly little thing! 
> 
> This is also not heavily edited. This was just kinda for fun and I don't feel like meticulously editing it like I do my longer works. Sorry for any mistakes!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“I hate you,” Akechi growls before shoving Akira harshly against the attic wall. And, Akira has to admit, the action and words line up.

But they could also align with something far deeper than hatred, which, apparently, is what Akechi is going for.

The instant Akira’s head hits the wall, Akechi’s lips are on his. Akira feels confident that this is Akechi’s first kiss. Not that he’s an expert, or even remotely experienced. The only first-hand experience he has to go on is Yusuke giving him a chaste peck after one of their planetarium visits. At the time, Akira had turned him down; no, he wasn’t interested in love at the moment, not with all the Phantom Thieves work they had going on. He’s starting to wish he’d just kissed his tall friend back so that he wouldn’t be stuck in this position currently.

Akechi’s hand pressing his shoulder into the wall tells Akira that he had no intention of releasing him anytime soon. His free hand weaves itself into his messy black curls. Akira sighes in his mind. He isn’t getting out of this.

He surrenders to his position and pushes his lips against Akechi’s slightly chapped, insistent ones. That must be what he’s been waiting for, because a second later he’s pulling Akira’s head closer and twisting his own to create a better angle.

Akira really doesn’t understand how this qualifies as hate. The last person he had reserved true hatred for was Kamoshida, and he had far from no desire to kiss him.

Maybe Akechi is trying to protect himself from tomorrow, even though that would be his own doing.

For tomorrow is the day Akira is going to die. Or, well, “die.” But Akechi doesn’t know that. Akira doubts they would be in their current arrangement if he did.

And so Akira gives in further, deciding to allow Akechi to be his final meal. Besides, he isn’t a half-bad kisser. He must have gotten his idea for this scene from a movie or TV show, because Akira feels like he’d been teleported into one right now. Perhaps an angsty drama, considering Akechi started their make-out session with the words, “I hate you.”

Akira lazily wrapps his arms around Akechi’s neck and lets his fingers drift through the ends of his hair. They’re not-so-surprisingly soft. He must use a nice conditioner to get it like that. Part of Akira is envious, because his untamable curls are never so pleasant to the touch. But the logical part of his brain—which is quickly disintegrating—reminds him there is nothing to envy Akechi for.

Akechi’s pressing his tongue against Akira’s lips. Akira’s sure it’s supposed to be a demand, but the desperate motion feels like more of a plead. He can’t help but feel a surge of excitement course through him as he realizes he is in more control than it first appeared. He lets Akechi beg a moment more before parting his lips and letting the other intrude into his mouth.

Akira always thought French kissing was odd. It looks disgusting and seemed extremely violating and gross. But his pre-established opinions are wiped away as Akechi roughly explores his mouth. Akira’s brain short-circuites as the tongue ran over his bottom row of teeth. He tightens his grasp on Akechi and pulls him in closer somehow.

Akechi licks his way across every inch of Akira’s mouth then pulls back, panting. Before Akira has time to respond, he grabs his chin and shoves it upwards. The detective latches onto his neck like a leech. Akira’s body tenses at the sharp pain, but he is less reluctant than he desires to admit he enjoyes the sensation. He groans as he presses a hand against the back of Akechi’s head and holds him against his skin.

Akechi seems fine with that, as his sole focus appears to be on abusing that particular spot of his neck relentlessly. He bites hard, then runs his tongue over the mark in a vain attempt to soothe it. He sucks harshly, but showers the skin with tiny kisses afterwards. Akira’s mind reels from the alternating rough and delicate actions. Not only are they driving his senses wild; they also make it hard to understand what is happening. Is Akechi having his way with him before their inevitable goodbye tomorrow? Or is he actually trying to convey some deeper message, some point to it all?

Akira figures he will probably never get an answer. Someone who starts a make-out session with “I hate you” usually doesn’t do a good job at explaining their feelings.

With a final, lingering kiss to his now purple neck, Akechi pulls back. He ignores Akira’s gaze, which he attempts to make as questioning as possible despite his eyes being half closed. The detective stares at the mark he’s made, like Yusuke does when he finishes a painting. When he seemingly decides it’s to his satisfaction, he lets his eyes meet Akira’s.

“Fuck,” Akechi mumbles under his breath. Akira’s confident that he was not supposed to hear that.

Akechi leans in one more time and kisses him. This time is chaste, slow—dare he say, even a little sweet. It only lasts several seconds. Akechi retreats, his gaze a glaring dagger once more.

“So much,” he hisses. Akira opens his mouth to ask what he’s talking about, but his foggy mind connects it to the declaration that started this whole mess.

Akira knows he’s not going to get any answers, and yet he leaves his mouth open to ask questions. Akechi notices this and rolls his eyes. He turns around and swiftly walks to the staircase. He doesn’t look back as he descends the stairs two-at-a-time. Akira closes his mouth once he hears the front door shut.

He runs his hand over the mark three times within the next 24 hours. The first is as he changes into his pajamas and prepares for bed that same night. The next is when he transforms into Joker, standing outside Sae’s palace for the final time. He hopes his high collar covers the huge love bite. He has no desire to explain that to his friends.

Finally, he runs his fingers slowly over it that evening, pressing against the purple skin. He’s trying to remember what’s real, if _he_ is real. But the pain coming in waves with each press of his fingers solidifies reality, along with his perfectly smooth, un-punctured forehead. Because the bullet shot through his skull earlier was fake, even if the shooter, the same boy who gave him his first hickey, is real.


End file.
